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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897106">The Nature of Daylight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn'>arlathahn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>At the end of all things. [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A bitter response to GoT S8 two years too late, A strange amalgamation of book and television canon, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Here's looking at you D&amp;D, Proof that our heroes can lose the fight and it can still be a Good Story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:14:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, she always imagined there would be songs. </p><p>Expectation. It’s a funny, disarming, damning thing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaime Lannister &amp; Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>At the end of all things. [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042731</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Nature of Daylight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ve been holding onto this one for a long time. I started writing it prior to season eight airing, but finishing it after the finale was...difficult. This piece mirrors some of season eight’s broad strokes, it flirts with a smidge of book territory, but the specifics are zero percent accurate and not how George will end things at all, I’m certain. Still, what is important to me is showcasing that tragedies can be just as beautiful as they are sad. Oh, how I wish the show had simply ended with the extinction of Westeros as we know it (or nearly so). It could have been handled so wonderfully, so tragically, so goddamn melancholic while also standing as a testament to humanity as a whole. How we come together, and how we fall apart. How people’s hearts, in all their glory, are perfectly encapsulated as the world ends, at the end of all things.  </p><p>While it may not look like it, this is my rendition of how Game of Thrones season eight should have ended: wrapped in cold cloaks, doused with angst, ignoring Cersei (almost) entirely, and focused on my two favorite characters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> "Winter will never come for the likes of us. Should we die in battle, they will surely sing of us, and it’s always summer in the songs. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining." </em>
</p><p> —Brienne, A Clash of Kings</p><p> </p><p>There is no noise on the Wall. </p><p>There are the customary sounds in preparation of war: the clanking of metal, the ringing of iron, the slashing of steel. The flames flickering, the wind howling, the doors creaking. The snow crunching, the water splashing, the ice cracking with a hollowing <em> snap.  </em></p><p>But beyond the sounds of an army living, a family breathing, a home nurturing—beyond these sounds, there is nothing but the impending doom of an invading force, the whispered silence of an enemy lurking, and lurking near. </p><p>There are no instruments. There are no songs. </p><p>Brienne has lived in camps of men and armies, she has experienced the jovial nature of their barbs and the silent anguish of their fear. She has heard many a drunken tale, even shared in a rare joke or two. She has listened as men crouched near the fire, torment and agony in their eyes, arms shaking as they warmed themselves from the ghosts of their dreams. Blood and tragedy followed their footsteps, and some scars were too deep to conceal. Some wounds were evident, obvious, and others were internal, private. Some healed, others crippled. Some men rode to their death on a glorious steed, and others were butchered in mud and shit, their caskets made of sand. </p><p>Brienne has lived and breathed in such places, and she has witnessed firsthand the glory and heartache such battles ensue. She has met her heroes, and she has faced her villains. She has watched one become the other, and she has learned how easy it is to fall. To fail. To die. She has learned and she has wept and she has stood tall again, because there was no choice. It was never in her capacity to <em> choose. </em> And perhaps that is why, for all that time has made a folly of her innocence, stripped it away, there is one hope Brienne yet clings to, however naive the wish may be.</p><p>Somehow, she always imagined there would be songs.</p><p>Despite her lessons, her battles, her scars, nothing quite prepares Brienne for the harrowing vacancy of Winterfell. There is no place quite like it: with its bleak corridors and its haunted rooms, with its rain-soaked walls and blood-soaked lumber. The company is as much a stranger as the family: the mismatched band of wildlings, southerners, and northernmen alike waiting together, as one, for the night to strike. </p><p>There is not much that makes Brienne long for home, because in truth there is not much for her to miss. But Winterfell, inexplicably, is one such place. It dispels a foreboding doom, meanwhile a chasm of death opens wider and wider, more bleak and terrifying than a cold hill in Pennytree where a Stark lay dead for the second time. Brienne misliked that place then, and she loathes to think of it now, but Winterfell stands as a shade of Catelyn Stark’s grave: a tree standing alone on a hill, rotting from the inside out.  </p><p>Her father always told her there would be songs before the dawn. But here there is only silence, and the steady thrum of a blacksmith’s hammer marching them ever closer to war. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re much uglier in daylight.” </em>
</p><p>—Jaime, Game of Thrones</p><p> </p><p>Jaime Lannister arrives in Winterfell when the light is low and dusk is setting, when the cold is bitter and the situation dire.</p><p>He arrives alone, adorned in dark clothes on a darker horse. Brienne does not recognize him at first glance, or even second: it takes a third proper, thorough look before her mind recognizes the sideways smirk, those emerald eyes, that playful expression she's received a handful of times and only from one man.</p><p>Jaime smiles like he's turned the tide, like he’s claiming victory and it tastes like sweet wine. He smiles as though he wasn’t under intense scrutiny the moment he stepped foot through those strong oak doors. As though he won't be questioned within an inch of his life once he dismantles his horse. He pays the sightseers no mind like he hasn't a care and maybe it is as simple as that: maybe Jaime Lannister pays no mind to what the North will make of him. Maybe he truly has eyes for one person–one woman, if she can be called that–however unfathomable the notion may seem. </p><p>The more time stops between them the more gazes they attract, and Brienne can feel the murmurs beginning to stir, the questions hissed behind thinly veiled contempt. But Jaime is steadfast, and foolish as always: his eyes do not move from her face, and his smile does fade in the slightest. </p><p>Naturally, that is when it all falls apart. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“We have to stop meeting like this,” Jaime drolls. </p><p>Brienne stares in disbelief; the guard is unamused. He spits at Jaime’s feet before glowering at Brienne with an awful sneer. “Five minutes,” he commands. “And no funny business.”</p><p>“Of course.” Brienne nods, giving the guard a wide berth. He leaves with one final grimace Jaime’s direction; Jaime grins.</p><p>He is not in shackles at least, not that his lack of hand would hold them. Jaime is placed in the coldest, darkest dungeon of Winterfell, but still he smiles. Still he bargains with his life with pretty eyes and dark humor.</p><p>“You seem well.”</p><p>Jaime snorts. “I am alive, and that is more than expected. If you could do something about the perpetual gloom, then truly I would have nothing to complain about.” He looks at her, his eyes crinkling with mirth. </p><p>Brienne frowns. “They should not have placed you here. You came to help, and they—”</p><p>“Please, spare me.” Jaime lifts a hand to the cage between them. “You will need to save that vigor for the trial, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Brienne loathes to think of it, but… “And what if there is no trial? What if they judge you guilty before the formalities have begun?”</p><p>Jaime stares at her long enough that her cheeks flush. She knows what he is thinking before he says the words aloud. “It would not be the first time, wench.”</p><p>Brienne raises a frustrated hand to join his. Here they are neighbors—or comrades, maybe. The iron cage is cold, but more distressingly, impenetrable. Not that she would dare to touch him, but the lack of choice leaves her wanting. Fiercely, deliberately. With aching slowness, not unlike the noose once held at her neck, choking the life from her throat. </p><p><em> It may be my last night in this world, </em>she remembers. She wouldn’t have cared, once. But now...</p><p>Brienne closes her eyes. “Surely there is something we can do.”</p><p>A cold touch brushes her cheek. Brienne startles, eyes flying open. Jaime does not smile at the appearance of nerves the way he once did, or perhaps the height of his curiosity is no longer a source of amusement to him. Brienne did not expect the feel of his fingers through the bars, just as she did not expect his rare solemnity to make an appearance, here of all places and times.</p><p> Jaime’s face is grim, his eyes serious as he takes her measure. “This healed well, all things considered.”</p><p>It is so dark she can scarcely see him. But she can feel him, his breath a ghost on her fingertips. Like a fevered kiss, a whispered truth only appropriate in the dark. </p><p>“Jaime…” She does not know what she means to say. She has missed him, longed for him, dreamed of him. Now he is here, within arm’s reach. Now he is here, behind bars. </p><p>It is to be expected, she knows. After everything that has happened, everything they have witnessed, everything they have shared, still she wonders: how did they arrive at this moment? How do they name this trust between them? How do they tell others, when they can scarcely tell themselves? </p><p>Is it real? Or has her mind created a fiction, too fantastic to believe? </p><p>Brienne did not name the impulse before, but there is no more time for lies between them. No more barbs, no more secrets. Only darkness. Only chains. Only truth. </p><p>She had hoped. She had dared to hope. </p><p>Jaime sighs. The truth, at last. “You are here,” he says, voice gentle in a way she has not heard since that day in the baths, so long ago. “That is enough.”</p><p>Brienne wishes the words were true. Wishes she were a form of comfort in this dark, dirty gloom. Jaime’s fingers squeeze her knuckles, brief and tender before he fades into darkness, and Brienne knows he means thank you. She knows he means farewell. </p><p>Brienne stays and shares breath until the guard forces her to leave and even then, she stands watch near the jail door until sunrise. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You love him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The northern lords call for Jaime’s head. </p><p>They are loud with their protests and louder still with their insults, banning a Lannister from taking another step within their sacred lands. They call him kingslayer, they spit at his feet, they bind his wrists.  </p><p>The sight is not so different from one so long ago, during a very different kind of war. A time when Ser Jaime was captured and chained for over a year before landing at Catelyn Stark’s feet, hair long and dark but eyes alight with fire. He was a different person then, of different countenance entirely, but the sight is eerie and familiar, even after all these years apart. </p><p>There is no bargaining to be had, this time. There are no soothing words to hold the northerner’s scorn at bay.</p><p>Lord Glover stands first, mocking the Lannister name, the King’s war. He reminds them of Ned, of Catelyn, of the Lannister who forsook his knightly duties, who fucked the queen, who birthed bastard children. </p><p>The crimes are all true, or nearly so. Jaime listens to the onslaught with a patience bordering on arrogance, which sparks the conflict into a wildfire. </p><p>“See,” one of them sneers from the crowd, “he doesn’t give a fuck about us. He’s just come to save his own skin. Your sister get bored of your antics, Lannister? Didn’t trust a sisterfucker <em> and </em>a kingslayer guarding her back?”</p><p>Jaime’s returning grin is sharp. <em> The lion, </em>they called him, and they would be right. “Now that you mention it, they do share that in common. Aerys saw threats everywhere, too.”</p><p>The lord appears shocked into compliance for a moment, maybe two, before he returns not with his tongue, but his sword. “You conniving little shit,” he says, stalking forward with sword-arm raised. Silver glints from the fire, a righteous flame. </p><p>Brienne stands between them without a thought. </p><p>“I swear to you,” Brienne pleads for the second time, “he is not the man he was.”</p><p>“Brienne–” Jaime whispers, a warning too low for anyone else to hear, but Brienne silences him with a look. The same tactic would not have worked before, and in truth it barely works now, but it is effective enough in that it mutes Jaime’s sharp tongue. That is not to say a lion merely rolls over to be tamed: Jaime looks at her with stubborn frustration gleaming bright and furious, meanwhile Brienne begs him right back not to bargain with his life the way he always seems to. These days more than most. </p><p>Several chairs creak along the floor; half the room has stood at attention, including that of the head table. Jon Snow looks between Jaime and Brienne now the way Catelyn didn’t back then, his gaze heavy with meaning, or comprehension, or maybe even sorrow. Brienne isn’t sure, and she doesn’t much care, except the difference could mean life or death for her captive turned comrade, and there is only so much impending doom one can endure before it seeps into your bones, a home. Brienne’s heart breaks once more to think that Jaime came here for nothing, to <em> die, </em> and there was nothing Brienne could do to convince his would-be murderers otherwise. Words are hopeless, meaningless, today more than ever, and she should have known, truly, it would come to this. She should have expected nothing less. </p><p>But history does not repeat itself. Not today. Jon looks between them, his gaze heavy on Jaime, then Brienne, before surprising the entire room with one sharp nod and two small words. </p><p>“Release him,” Jon commands, as the room falls silent.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You do. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It takes precisely three days, but Jaime is allowed free rein of Winterfell. </p><p>The northern lords are not happy, that much is obvious, but Sansa is democratic when she offers clemency for Jaime’s sins, as she speaks to her cousin and her house on behalf of Brienne’s boldly staked claim that Jaime is not the kingslayer his reputation suggests. It is a strange ceremony, with words both spoken and unsaid, but Sansa is content to add a soldier with some semblance of skill to the army of the living, and Jon is in agreement that not one soldier need go to waste. </p><p>In light of current events, holding onto past misdeeds and old grudges is moot point, and that is something the Starks aptly—if begrudgingly—understand. </p><p>Brienne keeps close, of course. She can’t not. Jaime came to Winterfell for her, at least in part, and she swore a vow to him just the same. No matter she could barely keep it, no matter the girls’ mother is slain: there is one person left Brienne can protect before either of those become untrue, and keep it she will.</p><p>There is little time before the night falls and the dead rise, but in the interim Brienne shows Jaime the ramparts. It is a distraction, nothing more, but the view is serene and the weather mild. The attempt at diversion provides both an ample view of the frostbacks and sequesters Jaime away from those whose political leanings are still fresh and bruised, alive and prickling. </p><p>“Ah, the great northern heights,” Jaime says to the ground below, grandiose and threatening. “A rather chilling death, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Brienne does not look. “We are a long way from King’s Landing, ser.”</p><p>Jaime hums in agreement. “Was it your plan to whisk me away to privacy? We’ve been down this road once before, as I recall. Didn’t go so well.” Those playful eyes swing back to her, as dangerous and swift as his sword. </p><p>Brienne avoids his gaze. “You said you visited Winterfell once before. I thought you might like to see the grounds.”</p><p>Even in her peripheral, Brienne can feel that dreadful Lannister look. It is true, her game has never been subtlety. </p><p>“It might be safer,” Brienne amends. “At least for a few days.”</p><p>“Skulking about Winterfell with my own personal guard?” Jaime asks, eyes amused. When that warrants no immediate reaction, he shrugs. “I can think of worse ways to pass the time. Certainly better than my last reception, at any rate. Though the latest rumors are not <em> just </em> of my own ilk, if I recall.”</p><p><em> Kingslayer’s whore. </em>How had he—? Brienne loathes the flush crawling up her neck. “Words are wind.”</p><p>“So they are.”</p><p>They haven’t been alone since they last drew swords. Haven’t exchanged truths since the funeral pyre. Brienne had wished for this moment, dreamed of it, but now that the invitation is within arm’s reach, her tongue is absurdly silent. Frustration freezes her bones. Her back shivers. </p><p>Jaime sighs, looking out over the Stark ancestral home. There is no awkwardness in his eyes, his back, his arm. His hair is longer again, his beard full grown, but still he looks worthy of song. Still a knight in one of the stories, still commanding attention and respect, even in foreign land. </p><p>“I never thought I would return here again.” A pause. “I never thought I would <em> want </em> to return here.”</p><p><em> You were well away, </em> Brienne thinks. <em> Why come back?  </em></p><p>“We are grateful to have you here,” she says instead. The words are heavy and awkward on her tongue, but the sentiment is true, or true enough.</p><p>And Jaime knows. “<em> We? </em> Come now, Brienne.”</p><p>Brienne does not look at him. Her lips twitch with the effort to remain neutral. “Well, perhaps not all of us.”</p><p>She does not have to see it to know Jaime smiles. He hides it well; his gaze returning back to the landscape. It is just starting to snow—a crisp, light dusting at odds with the perpetual tension between borders. “Just one, perhaps.”</p><p>Brienne allows the silence to swallow them. Time seems to stand still. It is a queer, haunting thing, drawing a shudder from her neck to her knees. “Time will help.”</p><p>“Tell that to Jon Snow’s army.”</p><p>Her gaze snaps back to him. A flick of stubbornness in her spine, a flickering flame. “I will tell them as many times as they need to hear it.”</p><p>Jaime’s laugh is filled with dark humor. “Much as I appreciate your valiant attempts at rescuing my life, there is no need. I am not here for them.”</p><p>There is always a game. Always a reason. Always a price. Brienne is tired of houses, tired of war. Just once, she would prefer simplicity. She does not expect an answer, but still she asks: “And what are you here for?”</p><p>Jaime runs his left hand along the railing, collecting snow at his fingertips. He does not look back at her when he replies, simple and precise: “You.”</p><p>Somehow the abrupt honesty is more shocking than the revelation itself. Brienne had invited him here, Jaime had arrived, the evidence all pointed one direction, but to hear it presented as fact, to make it <em> known </em>is...</p><p>Brienne looks at him. This enigma of a man, this elusive shadow. “Me?”</p><p>Jaime stands at his full height. Brienne had nearly forgotten his eyes were sharper than any dagger, forever daring her into a battle of wits, no matter her lack of experience on the battlefield. Jaime dances between traps and shields as easy as breathing, and there is no accounting for his grace or his beauty. He is forever a sight to behold, and Brienne has always been afraid to look. But so too she is too cowardly to turn away. </p><p>This is no different. Jaime’s gaze is excruciating, borderline painful, but the intensity has changed course since they last exchanged truths. First his eyes held anger, then it was simple frustration, but somewhere along the way the emotions became more and more complex until they levelled out again at wonderful simplicity. It should be a thrill, a sweetly anticipated success, except the emotion dwelling at the center of Brienne’s belly was not so easy to name, or face, or fight. </p><p>And Brienne could never bring herself to fight him. Not then, when Catelyn ordered her to King’s Landing, and not later, when Catelyn called for his head. Not now, when it must surely mean her doom to name this tentative flower blooming from the inside out. </p><p>Jaime’s eyes are entirely honest in the evening light. Entirely stubborn. “Yes.” </p><p>It is such a simple thing, to fall. </p><p>They stare at each other, one Stark loyalist and one Lannister commander, opposing sides in a war long lost, now bound together by a very different kind of battle. But it was never war that bound them, was it? Jaime admitted as much, with nary a jest to disprove it. Not that she would doubt him. Not that she would ever doubt him now. </p><p><em> You have rescued me more than once, </em> she wants to say. <em> I would follow you to the ends of the earth.  </em></p><p>Winterfell is a home no longer. The north is a shadow of its former glory. Too long have these wooden halls and snowy hills laid silent, with no Stark to preserve its warmth and fire and light. </p><p>If this were a song, Brienne would confess her love, her heartache, her loneliness. She would open her arms and hope that Jaime might hold her close and comfort her once more. She would ask that they ride into the darkness side by side, twin swords in hand. But Winterfell is a graveyard, a dark cloud on a downward ravine, and the blacksmith’s hammers will not allow a reprieve from the noose that yet haunts her dreams. </p><p>“I am grateful,” she says instead, eyes cast downward. “For a great many things.”</p><p>Jaime nods, and maybe he has dreams, too. Maybe he wishes for summer, and warmth, and songs. </p><p>Maybe they would not be here, reunited, if they didn’t. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> And here’s the miracle: </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jaime follows her down the ramparts without a word. </p><p>Where the doors of Winterfell are wide, the corridors are thin. The trenches are not made for two people, but Jaime does not leave her side. No matter she is more than a woman and a half, no matter there is decorum about a soldier’s place at a former prisoner’s side. In this war there are no terms, no etiquette. In this war there is only fighting, and marching, and drums. </p><p>When they come upon a group of soldiers on patrol, Jaime refuses to move. His body slides perpendicular to hers, a shorter version of a matching set slotting in the crevice between shoulder and elbow. Jaime greets their comrades with a dip of his head as they pass and when he straightens, his arm stays near Brienne’s side, a phantom touch hovering near her forearm. </p><p>It’s his left hand, his sword-hand. They have not been intertwined since they were last in chains, yet the distance here is akin to a physical ache, a bleeding wound. Jaime feels it too, she is certain: Brienne senses him linger, body tense with restraint, but still he remains within decorum’s bolded lines, never crossing or daring to cross unless necessary. It is a tense stalemate, waiting for the other to strike. Until the next chasm, the next bridge, the next doorway. Until circumstance rips them apart or forces them together once more.  </p><p>Brienne cannot hope to predict his movements, or his heart. She cannot hope to capture him, not in a way that is free of chains. Brienne has held his body, his secrets, his honor. She has joined him in battle and sworn oaths side by side. It is more than she ever expected, and nothing could ever compare. There is nothing else to offer, nothing left to ask. If she were younger, braver, or bolder, perhaps. If she were lovely, lively, and whole. If she were different; if time was kind; if fate had ruled in her favor. </p><p>Her heart yearns, but. </p><p>This is not the time for songs or idle daydreams. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She delivers him food and supplies, more days than not. </p><p>It is another form of protection, another visit that is both necessity and shield. Despite Jon’s orders, despite Sansa’s declarations, the north is yet a battleground, and tensions are higher than they’ve ever been. The Boltons left the north in a vulnerable position and more protective than most: one misstep and the tentative facade might collapse entirely. In a contrary turn of events, Brienne is able to go unnoticed where a Lannister would not. </p><p>Brienne does not have to know Jaime to understand his plight. He has never been one for cages, and his time in Robb Stark’s dungeon has left him predisposed to sunlight and freedom. And while his arm remains unshackled, his wrist still throbs with the memory. These are the scars that still flare, despite their propensity to heal: for northern lord and Lannister alike. </p><p>On the fifth day of their skirting the shadows and whispering behind walls, Jaime begs for a reprieve. An errand. A task. </p><p>“Anywhere,” he begs, green eyes bright. “For anything.”</p><p>Vows do not hold the meaning they once did, but this one simple task Brienne can manage. </p><p>The trust between them is a protective thing. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Jon sends them to Eastwatch, to collect the forces of wildings there. <em> Fortifying our defenses, </em> Sansa called it. <em> Gathering our army, </em>Jon agreed. </p><p>“It might even be safer,” Jon adds, his tone almost dry. At Jaime’s glance, he adds, “They do not care for politics.”</p><p>Jaime grins, all mirth. “My kind of people.”</p><p>And so they depart, two riders into the night. Jaime is in high spirits the moment the gates are reopened, despite the cold and lack of sunlight.</p><p>“On the road again,” he declares with a wicked grin. “This is becoming a habit, wench.”</p><p>“May this venture prove more successful than the last,” she retorts. </p><p>That serves to make Jaime smile all the wider. “Was that a<em> joke?” </em></p><p>Brienne’s face betrays nothing. </p><p>Jaime laughs, and even here his voice rings of utter delight. Even here, it is better than songs. </p><p>The snow is deeper to the east, and wetter, too: there are no guards to greet them, no horns to declare their call. There is no sound except the howl of wind and the crunch of hoof. No ravens, no hawks, no wolves. It is the same sense of foreboding, the same absence of life that makes Winterfell feel more graveyard than home. Indeed, Brienne feels before she sees: the castle has fallen to their imminent doom. </p><p>There are no patrols, for one, and no watchers for two; there are no lights, no fires, no smoke, no pyres. Corpses line the shallow water near both entrance and exit, but their bodies are haphazard, not lined for battle. The snow turns to ice, the air turns frigid, but the only bodies are those long dead, preserved in crystal with their faces turned white. </p><p>“Something is wrong,” Jaime says, echoing her thoughts. There is something haunted here, something still present: whistling in the air like windchimes. There are wounds on the bodies, but nothing to indicate a battle. It is as though the cold took them as one. “A slaughter, then,” Jaime tells her, his breath a pale hue. </p><p>“Yes,” Brienne agrees, but says nothing more. <em> The walls are listening, </em>she thinks, and she has seen enough of ghosts. </p><p>Jaime stands from his crouch near the floor. “We should leave. Now.”</p><p>They depart the tombs with haste, pulling or dragging each other by the fur when the other lags behind, too cold and too frightened to bother jesting or fighting. They stumble through the doorway on each other’s heels, and Brienne stumbles into Jaime’s back when he halts, a statue in the doorframe. She peers around him to see: Jaime’s horse has joined the corpses lining the gate, but whether by cold or by ghost is impossible to discern. Jaime stares at the mare, then points his gaze toward the horizon. She knows that look, scrutinizing and firm. She trusts him to plot better than she, but this is not a battleground for winning and they cannot delay. Brienne mounts her horse and moves quickly; though her muscles protest, she holds out a hand.<br/><br/>“Jaime,” she calls, but he does not listen; he does not look. His gaze is fixed somewhere ahead, struck mute on a far off hill. “<em>Jaime,” </em> she calls again, firmer. “Come with me.”</p><p>Jaime does not relinquish his stare for a breath, then two. On the third he blinks, coming back to himself. He hoists himself atop the mare, chest digging into her back as his voice rings in her ear.</p><p>“Ride,” he whispers. His breath is deathly cold. “Quickly.”</p><p>Brienne looks back once, and there she sees: a lone white rider sitting atop his steed.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“The long night is coming.”</p><p>Jon always speaks in a particular way, passionate and honest in a way that feels rare, but truthfully is quite typical here in the north. No matter what’s special about Jon, his tone or his lineage, no matter how mighty his voice and grandstanding his words, the effect is always the same: it’s invigorating when the soldiers raise their swords in rebuttal, it’s inspiring when the lords bow and the floorboards quake. It is truly remarkable to be part of a group so unified and resolute, finally a place where houses and banners are secondary to mere comrades in arms. </p><p>And therein lies relief. Here there are no second thoughts about Brienne’s face, her scars, her body. Here there are no japes when woman after woman sheds her dress for a coat of mail. Here they are all the same, here they are one: chanting for life and for king, a new dawn and a new age.</p><p>No matter what happens on the morrow, no matter what fate awaits them on the crest of the horizon, they will always have this moment. They will always have each other, to the end.</p><p>Jaime stands in a separate corner, away from the throng. He does not raise his sword, he does not sing along. It is not in objection to the quest as a whole, Brienne knows, but rather the dangers outweighing the risks in this particular circumstance. <em> There is no time to be joyful, </em> Jaime would say, a tick in his lip and a furrow on his brow. <em> Drunken idiots high on glory is a right to be earned, not claimed. </em></p><p>Brienne is not sure when she came to understand Jaime’s more elusive manners, just that somewhere along the way she, somehow, did.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> he loves you too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jaime insists on sparring with her. </p><p>Goads her, more like, but Brienne can see no harm in it. Training will relieve some pressure from the cold and the night, from death and from dreams. Swordplay is its own kind of reprieve: this they know better than most.</p><p>Still, she will not overwork him. No matter his taunts, Jaime must reserve energy for the darkness that awaits them. No amount of smirking or barbs will halt the progress of the dead, and no amount of charm will block a sword. If it could, Jaime would remain the greatest swordsman in the seven kingdoms. As it stands, he is not.  </p><p>He knows the workings clear enough. He knows how to move, how to step, how to strike. Jaime Lannister does not need training, he needs practice. He needs to relearn instinct and force it to cater to his off-hand. It is a daunting task, with only time as a solution. Brienne understands, and she is patient with his progress. More patient than Jaime is with himself. </p><p>“It should be easier,” Jaime mutters, rolling his shoulder. “I’ve used both before.”</p><p>“For more than just a parry?” </p><p>Jaime glares. Brienne stares back, nonplussed.</p><p>“Again,” Jaime says, grunting. </p><p>And so they dance under the moonlight, beneath the old trees of Winterfell, beneath the snow. Adrenaline singing, the earth stilling, it is easy to forget. Easy to fall into old habits and forge new ones. Jaime flusters and falls, Brienne’s sword at his throat. <em> Oathkeeper, </em> a command and a promise in one <em> . </em>Brienne helps him up, and Jaime uses the leverage to bring her face close, his voice a whisper in her ear. </p><p>“Very good, wench.”</p><p>He is always so warm. As though the sunlight of the south is etched into his bones, warming him from the inside out. If she hadn’t seen him naked and alive in front of her before, she would think magic was at play, buried beneath his clothes.</p><p>“For a squire?”</p><p>When Jaime pulls away, his eyes are smiling with the memory. “A green one, say.”</p><p>Brienne circles again. Jaime mimics her steps. “A shame my skills have not improved since we last drew swords, ser.”</p><p>Jaime takes in the long planes of her, his gaze sweeping high, then low. “Do not shame yourself, my lady. You are strong as any man.”</p><p>“Stronger than you.”</p><p>Jaime’s eyes flash with something like pride. “Aye. Stronger than me.”</p><p>Brienne strikes, careful to aim high, and the sword lands. It pierces the wood above Jaime’s shoulder, caught between one beam and another. She makes to retreat, but Jaime is faster: he swings his left arm around her exposed shoulder, fingers reaching behind her neck to tug at her hair. </p><p>She thinks he means to crash her against the splintering wood, but instead Jaime pulls her close and kisses her. </p><p>He’s sure with it, is the surprising part. After Lady Catelyn she had known, or at least suspected, but she never expected the sentiment to be true twice. She is ugly and homely and tall and damaged; her face was flawed before the scars appeared to join it, and her hearing in the left ear never fully recovered from her time at the inn.  </p><p>She is no pretty thing to stare at. And here, with her cheeks flushed and her breathing labored, there is certainly nothing to draw Jaime Lannister’s gaze. Nothing to draw his kiss, stolen beneath the moonlight. But Jaime is not preoccupied by what is expected, or what has come before. Jaime Lannister is confident and self-assured, so when he strikes, there is no doubt his actions are any but his own. </p><p>It is a chaste kiss, like another form of greeting. It is sweet as nectar, warm as honey. It reminds Brienne of summer. It reminds her of songs.</p><p>“I missed you, wench,” Jaime breathes.</p><p>It is a dangerous thing, to hope. </p><p>Brienne makes to speak, but her throat is dry. She is distracted, caught off guard. Jaime smiles with victory. It is a woefully good look on him: commanding and proud. </p><p>Jaime steps back into form, eyes glinting with mischief. Brienne knows his next words before he says them, mouth slick, spilling with sin. </p><p>“Again.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are allowed </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to lick off the colour from his lips, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She is half expecting the knock, at this point.</p><p>She’s isn’t, and yet she is.</p><p>It’s another of those elusive habits she has come to expect without consciously realizing she’d been anticipating anything concrete. It’s only in the moment, mere seconds before an event that Brienne realizes she’s been fussing with her appearance, her clothes, her cot for over an hour, waiting with bated breath for the call.</p><p>Expectation is not what makes her fingers tremble as she touches the cool metal doorknob, but expectation is entirely what sets the veins of her wrist afire despite the cold. Expectation is most certainly what makes her heart race faster the horse Jaime gifted her, faster than the valyrian steel she wields in his name.</p><p>What Jaime expects is harder to perceive. He is mysterious again, a shadow in the dark, the light of the hallway flickering behind his ear so Brienne cannot parse his expression. But even that mystery is all the sweeter for it, a strange dichotomy that makes her stomach clench and coil. Brienne does not know what request is being made of her, and she does not know what propriety would have her answer: she has no experience from which to draw wisdom, but it is...thrilling, nonetheless, that she should find herself in such a circumstance at all. Despite what they told her, despite what she believed, Jaime is here, beckoning her presence and that is a wonderful, exquisite thing. She trusts him, explicitly, and that is all the knowledge she needs. </p><p>Brienne steps aside. Jaime enters and stands in the middle of the room. </p><p>Expectation is a thick and heavy thing, but it is not the sort of tension one can parry with a knife. It is unspoken, both riveting and terrifying, like the fevered prayer of a witch’s spell.</p><p>“Have you come to tell me what a terrible plan this is?” Brienne asks at length. </p><p>Jaime does not move. His tone is curt. “No.” </p><p>Brienne wishes she could see him. All this time he’s been difficult to look at, but now, before the end, Brienne wishes her foolish requests had been smarter, braver: despite the embarrassment flooding her cheeks, despite the courage draining down the thick line of her spine, it would be worth the momentary lapse of pride to gaze upon him. To take him in, to stare him down. To understand him, in heart and mind. </p><p>Brienne forces herself to be brave another way, instead. She forces herself to ask, again. “Why are you here?”</p><p>It is not an accusation; he is no longer on trial. There is no condemnation to be found here, from her lips. There is nothing left but sweet simplicity and the burning desire to know. Brienne blinks in the darkness, wills her eyes to adjust faster, to pick apart every clue her mind cannot intuit from the man in front of her, a man with so many layers he’s near uncomprehending. Here in the cold damp darkness Jaime is more enigma than ever and for a singular weak moment Brienne loathes the protective shells he keeps, still, after all this time. </p><p>She takes a foolish step forward. “Jaime…”</p><p>Jaime meets her halfway, as though he were waiting for her to take the first step. “If I asked you to leave, would you do it?”</p><p>The question halts her footsteps. “Leave?”</p><p>“Leave the North. Leave the war. Run away to Tarth, start over. Would you do it?”</p><p>Her body goes still; her heart pounds.</p><p>Jaime sighs, sensing her trepidation, and runs a hand through his growing hair instead. “What is it we’re doing here, Brienne? What is it we’re dying for?”</p><p>It enrages her then, that he should need to ask. After everything he’s told her, everything they’ve endured, that he would <em> dare </em> to question. “ <em> We </em> are here to secure a future. For the living. For the children. For us. Gods, Jaime, we’re here to live!”</p><p>Hot rage fills her cheeks, threatening her resolve. She’s never been so cross with him, even at his worst, and it’s because of that respect, that admiration, that unspoken adoring she could never quite shake that she loathes him. For spitting on her affection, her admiration, her love, for questioning her resolve, her morality, her honor.</p><p>She thought his was hers to hold, once. </p><p>Brienne’s hands are shaking when Jaime takes that final step forward, his left hand secure on her arm, just above her elbow. He looks at her, green eyes pleading in the dark, begging for a pardon, a loophole, a price. Why he would ask her, why he believes she can grant him this clemency is beyond her comprehension, for surely he knows: it was never within her power. Never within her capacity to <em> choose.  </em></p><p>His eyes are twin stars in the dark. “I would die for you in a heartbeat. I would, but this isn’t securing anything, Brienne, this is a slaughter. I’ve seen it enough times to know.”</p><p>Brienne stares, trying to see, to understand, to hear. There is always a kernel of truth in Jaime’s words, always a deeper meaning, always a mystery hidden underneath. Except there is no comprehending here that Brienne can understand, no redemption she can garner, no wager to win. There is nothing but pain and loss and the severe emptiness of war that she feels, as stark as the northern wind upon her skin.</p><p>Jaime sighs, a bone-crushing defeat. He walks to the sole candle wasting away near her bedroll, the only source of light they can afford in this place. His left hand cradles the flame, his face cast in shadow.  </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet, and does not elaborate. </p><p>For the past, Brienne thinks. For the future. For the night, for not arriving sooner. For his part in what happened. Then and now. North and south. Kings and bastards and half-truths. </p><p>For all of it, combined. </p><p>“There is no need,” she replies, and means it.</p><p>Jaime looks at her, and even the dark Brienne can feel his gaze is piercing. Always seeing, always observing. Always cataloguing and dissecting and tearing down walls just to see what manner of conviction lay buried underneath. Jaime looks as though he can see the heart of her, past her flesh and past her bones, and Brienne has craved this attention, this fine detail, but to see it alive and in front of her, miniscule and personal, she realizes what a fool she’s been, to believe she could withstand the force of him. She will withstand him, true, but the resulting crash could wilt her away until the bare shape of her remains. Broken, defeated. Her resolve flinches, her eyes waver, but her belief stands tall as the northern oak doors. </p><p><em> Stubborn, </em> Jaime would say. <em> Mulish and foolish.  </em></p><p>He is right, of course. But so is she. </p><p>“I meant it, you know,” Jaime says, still looking. “I came here to protect you. To honor my vows, however foolish that quest may be.”</p><p>This, at least, is familiar ground. “I can think of nothing more foolish.”</p><p>That produces a smile, however slight. “I thought you might say as much. But you’re not hearing me.”</p><p>Brienne looks back, a question. Jaime abandons the candle, his legs crossing the threshold between them. Sly feet, graceful movements. A predator, hunting prey.  </p><p>“I meant I am here—for you.”</p><p>The flush is expected, at this point, except that it isn’t, it never is, because Jaime is a force of nature and Brienne is swept up, always, in his dichotomy and his clues, in his scars and his honor and his nature. He is a beautiful, complicated mess, but she adores the heart of him: the heart no one saw—or was fit to see—before. </p><p>She swallows. “So you’ve said.”</p><p>Jaime steps forward. His hand reaches out, a gentler question curling around her elbow. “And do you believe me?”</p><p>As if she could ever doubt. “Yes.”</p><p>“I could hardly leave you now. I never could,” Jaime whispers, but his voice is foreign, far-off. As though dispelling some terrible secret meant only for his ears to hear.  </p><p>Brienne is equally quiet, too timid to break the rare vulnerability of Jaime’s mysteries come to light. “Why would you ask me to leave?”</p><p>Jaime lifts his hand, and his palm is tender against her cheek. Warm. He cradles the wound, his thumb an etching pencil along the scar. Brienne wonders if he loathes his missing hand as much as she loathes her gaping cheek. A matching set, indeed. </p><p>His sigh is warm against her neck. “I wish for you to <em> live, </em>Brienne. There are no guarantees.”</p><p>The admission pricks at her more than the initial request, in a different manner entirely. For she knows, with a sinking, instinctual ache, the true heart of the matter lies not in Jaime’s question, but in his explanation. Jaime is not prone to cowardice, and he would not abandon his post so easily. For him to ask the same of her spells a deeper concern, beyond that of his own ilk. </p><p><em> I’m dying, </em>she remembers, and shudders at the thought. No, Jaime Lannister is not afraid of his own death. But hers…</p><p>Could it be? </p><p>“There never was.” Her blush has yet to recede, but it is dim enough no one will be the wiser, not even Jaime Lannister, so Brienne forges on: “If we are to die, let us do it together.”</p><p>She is not expecting Jaime’s smile to resurface, a quirk of humor in his left cheek. His eyes are bright with life and hidden meaning. It is her favorite image of him, even if the reappearance of his grin spells a particular sense of foreboding: his intent to torture her with a peculiar brand of teasing bordering on obscene. </p><p>“But first we’ll live,” Jaime breathes, and his face inches closer. </p><p>Brienne cannot stand to look at him. Not his eyes, too close, too personal to question his intent. Not his lips, too beautiful and near to dream about. He is both opaque and insatiable, a conundrum Brienne has loathed and loved more deeply than she thought possible. Brienne cannot hope to compare, cannot hope to soothe whatever fire rages within him, but gods if she wouldn’t try. Gods if she would dare to dream, no matter how foolish the endeavor. She has little to offer, but so too there is little holding her back: there is nothing but Brienne and her homely, broken face; there is nothing but Jaime with his dangerous smile and intelligent eyes. There is nothing but the breath trapped behind Brienne’s crooked teeth, nothing but the curl of Jaime’s fingers around her neck, where the noose once lay. </p><p>In the songs the maiden is always beautiful, the season is always spring, but the reality is more potent, more raw, more honest: Brienne is no beauty, and the sun no longer shines. It might have been a point of melancholy once, a dull ache in her quest for honor, but with Jaime here, holding her close, the promises are no longer missed, or gone, or unfulfilled.</p><p>There are no songs, Brienne knows. But on the coldest, darkest night there is Jaime, and that is more than enough. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> to listen to the hymns in his pulse, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Contrary to current events, what follows is an unhurried affair. </p><p>Brienne has dreamt of this moment, wished for it: deep in her heart she has yearned and dared to hope the mirror’s image might transform, that her septa might be wrong and the chance for love and courtly values might be returned. </p><p>But even in dreams, Brienne never expected this<em> .  </em></p><p>Jaime is all around her, pressing into her everywhere: all she can see is darkness, but even then she is not alone. It is not a void, but a blanket, and Jaime is there, his shoulder a shadow hovering just within reach. The sensation is all sweeter for it: to be devoid of all sense except for Jaime and their bodies intertwined. His skin brushes hers, caressing her everywhere: from the place their bodies are joined to his palm running a path up and down her side, cupping a breast just to continue its trek further north before traveling back down again, distracting and warm. His palm is rough in some places, smooth in others, and his touch teeters between desperate and sweet, as though unsure what he can claim, or hold, or want.</p><p>Brienne may doubt the wealth of Jaime's desire, she may disbelieve her worth as it relates to the carnal, but she can trust this: she can trust Jaime's body looming over hers, she can trust his arms clutching her close, his hips making her thighs sweat. Their joining is not impersonal, not distant the way the septa warned and Brienne adores it: adores proving the falsehoods wrong in a manner where words are not heeded at all, where physicality is its own kind of language, honest and earnest in a way words so rarely are—these days more than most. Jaime steers her forward; Jaime directs her body; Jaime pushes into her; Jaime draws their bodies closer and closer with each thrust of his hips. In the most intimate of circumstance Brienne is finally free: there is no part of her that is not touched by Jaime's body atop her own, tugging and pulsing and groaning and soothing and she relishes it—reslishes every imperfectly perfect moment connecting them here, together, in all the ways that count. </p><p>Brienne brings her legs up, circles them around Jaime's back and his composure fractures just a bit, just enough that Brienne feels the rumble of his chest as it collapses on top of her own. Just enough Brienne feels his left hand squeeze and hold where it's buried at her hip. Their bodies are slick with sweat, the slip and slide of their bodies tangled together in war becoming more familiar by the minute, but still Brienne clutches to that shoulder in her mind's eye, still she wraps herself around Jaime in a fierce embrace and squeezes for all she's worth. She gasps when Jaime whispers her name, a broken sob in her ear, “<em>Brienne,” </em> ; she moans when his right arm squirms beneath her back to <em> lift </em> her up to meet him, burying the hilt of him further yet. His heat is everywhere, overwhelming, and Brienne loves it. She loves him. </p><p>“Jaime,” she whispers back, and she thinks he knows, thinks he can sense with that perceptive nature of his how she yearns for him, how she adores him: how she always has, how she always will. </p><p>It feels like a promise, a most holy vow.</p><p>Her last. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“It’s not going to stand,” Jaime remarks in that straightforward way of his. It’s different from Jon, less honest and more blunt. Brienne didn’t think there was a distinction, before, but now she knows. Jaime speaks from experience, from logic and plans and defenses. Jon speaks from conviction.</p><p>As does Brienne. “You don’t know that.”</p><p>Jaime looks to her, his eyes a brilliant flash of green in the dark. “I do. You’ve seen their numbers, the dragon. If the cold comes with them, they have the advantage. We have the walls, but walls aren’t going to stop snow. Ice. Cold. It won’t last.” He trails off, voice closer to defeat than it was at the start.</p><p>Brienne looks at him, conflicted by his tone. His expression is far away, as though he is speaking not to her, but to a former shell of himself he left in King’s Landing, on an island of sun. There is a fear hidden beneath the practicality of his words, all too conscious of what they might lose. </p><p>“Jaime,” she tries, but it’s a weak protest. One gloved hand reaches out, then retracts.</p><p>“Tell me you think we’ll make it, then,” Jaime challenges, voice hard.</p><p>“We have to try,” Brienne replies, but they both know it is diplomacy in lieu of a real answer.</p><p>Jaime sighs like he knew she’d be difficult, or maybe the slump of his shoulders is mere fatigue. It’s hard to tell these days, in this light. The Jaime standing before her is not a Jaime she is accustomed to, if she was ever accustomed to him at all. Just when Brienne thinks she has a handle on his eccentricities and his manners, his roguish intents and his playful demeanor, he changes yet again. It’s not mere deceit, though; it is not an illusion but who he is: a camouflage of logic and idealism trapped in a constant battle of wills. He is both rigid and ever-changing, and Brienne never knows which side of him to anticipate.</p><p><em> There is no anticipating a lion, </em>she thinks. </p><p>Jaime looks away, but Brienne knows he is thinking hard, thinking deep. She allows him this moment of silence, a break from the questions. It is the least she can do, to grant him peace. </p><p>“Aye,” Jaime whispers at long last, a ghost on the wind. “We have to try.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Despite the snow, it is not always cold. </p><p>Sometimes the North is a blanket of wet, heavy flakes, but the air itself is not so frigid. Sometimes the air is thick and damp––not warm, but not freezing, either. Sometimes the snowfall rains down from the heavens faster than the dead who march upon them, and other times it’s a peaceful, airy fall, the type of picturesque work of art where each individual flake is a marvel to watch on its graceful tumble toward the earth. It’s a serene sort of tranquility, when time appears to stand still. </p><p>Brienne does not know if she has a preference for snow, as such. She grew up on an island of water, and while she is accustomed to wind and cold, the snow-covered hills and valleys of the North is never something she grows accustomed to, never a climate she grows comfortable with. Even so, it’s easy to lose oneself here, where all the eye can see is miles upon miles of clear, blanketed snow, unblemished by man or beast or time. It is a rarity to see, but Brienne likes to stand at the watchtower and marvel at nature’s beauty, so different on the other side of the world. </p><p>So untouched by war, however brief. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> to bask in the sunlight of his voice. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Marry me.”</p><p>Brienne stops logging firewood. She stops everything altogether. Hands half raised above her head fall to her waist, the axe falling hard against the stump. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Marry me,” Jaime says again, as though the words aren’t improbable. Impossible. He stalks over to her, feet moving with intent, eyes shining with victory. Brienne has half an instant to wonder if he is drunk, but there is no odor to him. Nothing but the evidence of a hard-won plot in his gait, overwhelming his expression. </p><p>“Would you have me? Would you do me this honor?”</p><p>“Honor?”</p><p>“<em>Yes, </em>Brienne. Honor.” Jaime reaches for her hand. His fingers are warm, and she pictures him hovering near the fire, hairbrained with plans of yet another excursion, a very different kind of battle. She pictures him fidgeting with nervous energy, all of it expelled her direction when he spotted her across the training yard, breaking wood. </p><p>“I—this is foolishness, Jaime. Why would you—”</p><p>“Because there is no time to waste. Because I’ve wasted enough already. Because you deserve better than some hedge knight doting some half meager promises to you every other day. Better than waiting to die on a land that is not your own. Pick any answer you’d like; they’re all true.”</p><p>Brienne blinks. She studies Jaime’s face as she processes his words. His face has lost some of its humor, his vehemence overcoming the cheerful forcefulness of his optimistic zeal, his intent transformed into something sober, something real. Something more suiting to their dire circumstance, in this wet, dreary place. </p><p>Jaime looks at her. His expression shifts from expectancy to irritation. He gestures hopelessly. </p><p>“Because I care for you,” he says, frustrated. </p><p>Damn Lannisters and their damned honesty. It brings her up short every time. It makes her tongue foolish, brandishing his honesty with some of her own.</p><p>“I care for you, too,” she mutters. Her voice is half-irritated, too: she speaks half at the ground, half at Jaime’s boots. </p><p>To anyone else, it would be an insult, or at the very least a ludicrous joke. To anyone else, they would make an impossible pair. But Jaime just smiles like Brienne has fulfilled every oath and redeemed every vow. He looks at her like she is a knight in a song, and the verses are all backwards, turned back around in reverse, but Brienne cannot help but hear a single line of that glorious melody, a far off whistle from a far off tune. </p><p>Jaime takes her hand, the axe long forgotten, and together they run into the forest, to the banks of a tall weirwood tree. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are allowed  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to have him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It is a simple affair. Short, direct, and to the point. There is no audience, no claps, no cheers. There is no sunshine, no cloaks, no swords. There is nothing but Jaime and the godswood, nothing but another kind of promise in the dark. </p><p>It is not the sort of future Brienne once imagined, and neither is it the kind of promise that spans lifetimes and centuries. Brienne cannot promise tomorrow, and Jaime can only promise today. The longevity of their union is far from ideal, but the ceremony is all the sweeter for it. To lay down arms when you have everything to lose is not weakness, but strength. To forfeit tomorrow for a chance at happiness today is not cowardice, but bravery. </p><p>Brienne offers her heart, and Jaime offers his name. </p><p>There are no harps, no strings, no songs, but Brienne does not need to hear the music to believe it exists. She does not require its presence to feel its force, alive and thrumming in the air, the wind, the leaves. The land is cold, and the forest is dark, but Brienne does not need to see the sun to feel its shine. So as long as Jaime is in front of her, clasping her hand and tugging her close, she has all the warmth and happiness she could ever truly need. </p><p>Jaime’s returning smile is worth a thousand lifetimes, a thousand wars. He squeezes her hand, a promise. </p><p>Brienne does not have the heart to tell him it has long been fulfilled. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Three days later, Winterfell falls.</p><p>Jaime does not say that he was right.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Brienne does not know what she was expecting to happen. Maybe it’s all in the name, <em> Winterfell, </em> maybe it was always meant to happen this way. Brienne has never given much thought to fate or destinies, but looking at Bran Stark and Jaime Lannister, looking at the blizzard behind them, blocking out the woods, buildings, and farms surrounding the Stark ancestral home, Brienne cannot help but feel history is being made before their weary eyes, in ways only one of them possesses the foresight to truly see. And for a moment, Brienne can feel it, too: as though the horrible failure before her is happening to someone else, someone who is both Brienne and not Brienne at once. As though time has stood still, an uncertain magic at play both apparent and vague, a sort of inevitability that feels akin to serene understanding, an acceptance for a loss outside of her control, already written in the stars. </p><p>When Brienne blinks the illusion of providence is gone, replaced with a heartbroken yearning for a place she barely knew, a home that was not a home at all. Brienne watches the fires replaced by snow, watches the banners replaced by ice and it is crushing in a way Brienne did not anticipate or expect. </p><p>Brienne has lost many allies, and many of those deaths haunt her still. But watching Winterfell lose its heart after everything the North has fought, faced, and overcome is an uncomfortable sort of chill. Another, different kind of inevitability fills Brienne’s bones, a promise that more death is on the move, and death has many faces. Most are mere strangers, true, but there are a handful of Stark men in those large castle walls that Brienne could not stand to face with a blade at her throat or an arrow in her neck. She has already encountered one resurrected being; Brienne does not know if she can face another undead Stark and live. </p><p>If it wasn’t true before, it most certainly is now: </p><p>Brienne of Tarth has failed the Starks. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You love each other. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It is a bloody thing, their retreat. </p><p>It is impossible to tell snow from ash, friend from foe. The dead are rising, their blue eyes glowing, and their collective snarls are louder than the living’s screams. By the time the horn has sounded the night is already in chaos. Horses are dying, men are freezing, the light is fading. Brienne has lost all sense of direction, and her instruction is equally useless: she does not know where they are running, whether toward or away. There is no light at the end of this tunnel, there is no reprieve from the storm. Fire and winter collide, an avalanche forming in the sky, descending like a crashing wave of darkened night creeping ever closer to their retreating footsteps. Brienne’s feet turn to flee, and she does not even know if a commander issued the order, or whether some otherworldly force prompted their defeat. </p><p>The dead are the reigning terror here.</p><p>It is a cowardly act, their deserting Winterfell. It is ungraceful, unbecoming. Sheer desperation is her guide as Brienne marches her way south, or some lackluster direction like it. Perhaps she walks in circles; she does not know, and she does not rightly care. She would gladly die with a sword in her hand and a scream in her throat, but neither will she add her body to those of the dead. Neither will she fight her brothers in arms. There is no glory in this, but there is no death, either: the choice is not a choice at all, for here there is living or there is something <em> else, </em> something worse than the demons who haunt her sleep, that claw at her hope. This is worse than sleepless nights, worse than the noose.</p><p>She dreamt of this day, once. Dreamt of fighting on a battlefield, dreamt of dying to protect those she loved. Dreamt of enlisting for a cause both honorable and just. She dreamt of the banners, the cloaks, the march and the drums. She dreamt there would be songs, so long ago. So long the feeling is a dream itself, left to rot in this dark, dirty gloom.</p><p>The reality is striking. The reality is cold. There is nothing to envision here, there is no resting her head. There is no honor, no resounding battle cry. There is nothing but the tornado of clouds closing in, only the dead grappling with her boots. Only skeletal fingers wrapping around her wrists, her arms, her throat, desperate to join her ranks to theirs, the undead. </p><p>“To me!” she hears, a far-off cry, and there he is: the lion of Lannister, his sword aflame. It is a trick of the magic that killed Renly, or maybe it is Jaime, just Jaime, who conjures fire at his fingertips. She should not be surprised; it might have terrified her once, might have rendered her speechless and inept, but now—now she lives in a waking dream where Jaime Lannister is a beautiful sight, and wholly becoming. </p><p>Jaime hoists her up by the arm; his grip is strong where she is weak. “Come along, wench,” she hears, a challenge in her ear. “There’s plenty left for you. I’m feeling generous; we can share.”</p><p>Brienne falls back onto the vambrace of his armor, but Jaime does not allow her a reprieve: he hoists her back on her feet once more. A tug on the sleeve, a shove in the ribs where a wight once lay. His sword swings to and fro, his face a shadow in the orange light. He is a sight to behold: a brilliant rage against the blue-black twilight. </p><p>If it were anything but a dream, Jaime would smirk back at her. Tease her mercilessly for her outright stare. But this is no dream, this is a waking nightmare, so instead Jaime pushes and shoves her toward daylight, against her protests, against her screams. </p><p>Her aim is directionless; his is true. She is slowing him down. She knows and she fights him, because he is not himself. Because he is not fighting <em> her. </em>She didn’t know she needed it, craved it, but now she fights back: sticks her feet in the mud and stops short, forcing Jaime to meet her gaze head on. </p><p>He stares at her, green eyes grim. His grip is firm on her shoulder, teasing the seam of a nick on her arm. “Brienne,” more command than politeness, and there he is, a glimmer of the familiar at last. “<em> Move. </em>”</p><p>She cannot listen; she can barely hear. There are screams everywhere, snow and ash and fire, and there is no running from this night. She was running for hours, or maybe it was days: she started running to find him, but now he is here, sturdy and warm while she wasted away. </p><p>“I cannot.” Her voice is a stranger. Where is the shieldmaiden of Tarth, a fierce warrior who begged to be named kingsguard? Where is the woman who fought Jaime Lannister in chains and won? Where is the woman who ventured into the dark, into the rain with no chance? Where is she now? Where has she disappeared, where has she gone? </p><p>Brienne remembers cold nights left alone. She remembers pain. She remembers Jaime screaming, she remembers <em> sapphires.  </em></p><p>“Brienne.” Jaime’s face blocks her vision, until all she can see is his face. This wicked man with a vile tongue. This honorable man with a goodness inside. This warrior, this soldier, this knight. She has left him and she has followed him; she has betrayed and she has trusted him. She has hated him and she has loved him. </p><p>“I love you,” she says, because this is a dream. This is a waking nightmare, and she expects to wake up. </p><p>The Jaime from her dreams is a different sort of ghost. Different from Catelyn, different from Renly. He has always been different, and today is more of the same. His face fractures, his composure fades away, and she did not know this would be what causes the facade to crack; she did not know this would be the end of dreaming. </p><p>Will he hold her as she wakes? Will he allow her a reprieve from the storm? </p><p>“I tried,” she says, though she does not know if he can hear her over the wind. Her tongue is listless, her thoughts jumbled. “I tried to keep my oath. I swore to Lady Catelyn, to you. I tried and I failed, but I swear to you, I meant it. You trusted me, and I...”</p><p>“<em>Brienne,” </em> Jaime snaps, and it is no longer a request. No longer a command. It is anger, bright red and searing.</p><p>He stares into the heart of her, resilient and firm. He commands full attention. “You’ve failed no one. Follow me out of this godforsaken land and we’ll see who can claim whom as more honorable. Perhaps we’ll make a show of it: whoever said a kingslayer wouldn’t drive a hard bargain?”</p><p>Brienne stares at him, uncomprehending, until realization dawns. Slowly, clearly, as delicate as fresh snowfall on a winter day. Jaime’s hand sweeps her shoulder, down her arm, until he grasps her hand. His actions are forever at odds with his words, a strange dichotomy at war with the hidden impulse of his heart. </p><p>Brienne stares at their fingers, intertwined. She stares at Jaime, begging her to live, to fight, to run. It is a strange thing: an eclectic mixture of past and present combined. He had asked this of her once before, but not with him, never <em> with him. </em>Can it be true? Has her time finally come? He said it was for her sake, that he wished for her to live, but what Jaime failed to understand was that she would be left wanting if she left somewhere he could not follow. Renly had been stripped from her grasp, Catelyn had been slain. Brienne had only just received Jaime back in her grasp; she would rather die than forsake him now. </p><p>Her heart weeps with understanding. </p><p>How much time had she wasted? Loyalties and banners and oaths—and all of it came down to blood and ash, to castles made of sand. Nothing remains but Jaime and his half-truths, his barbs that delight in her will to live and fight another day. <em> Come along my sweetling, while the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my lady?  </em></p><p>“Is this a dream?” she asks of him. </p><p>Jaime’s smile is sharp in the predawn light. He pulls her once more toward freedom and waking and daylight. “If it is, wench, then I expect a bloody good ending.”</p><p>This time, Brienne follows.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You do. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The further they retreat, the clearer the horizon becomes. </p><p>It seems too good to be true; it seems a miracle. Dragonfire and magic lights the way, and the darkness retreats with each step they take. Their forces are few, the snowfall is steep, but the air clears once they cross White Harbor. The receding wind is its own kind of melody, like the whistle of a far-off tune. </p><p>“Where are they headed?” a soldier asks, what is visible beneath his helm lined with dirt and blood. His face holds the expression of a young squire wrestling with the crushing defeat of dejected hope after his first failed melee, but closer inspection shows the truth of the matter: streaks of tears marr the darkened skin where age has given way to wrinkles, and life has given way to loss. </p><p>Brienne thinks of the jailor at Winterfell, spitting. She thinks of the Stark home, lost. She thinks of Jaime, smiling in the face of death. Not once, but twice.</p><p>“South,” Jaime replies, his eyes hard with understanding. “They travel south.”</p><p>Brienne knows the meaning of the words as sure as she knows her own name. She knows what fate awaits at the heart of King’s Landing, and she knows Jaime is already several paces ahead of her even then: planning, calculating, plotting. </p><p>“They’re not going to pick us off?” the man asks. He is puzzled, confused. Frightened. </p><p>Jaime doesn’t acknowledge the soldier. Brienne pays no heed, either. She has eyes for only Jaime, and the tic in his jaw as he surveys the landscape. “There is no need,” Jaime declares. “They’re regrouping, adding to their numbers. As we lick our wounds, they will feed on the dead at King’s Landing. And when they are through, they will come for us next.”</p><p>“Last,” Brienne says, understanding. <em> After Cersei.  </em></p><p>Jaime looks back at her. His eyes are unreadable, inscrutable. “Yes.”</p><p>No further words are needed, for soldier or comrade alike. The walk to White Harbor is a somber one, with women weeping and babes crying. Brienne wishes she held a commanding presence, or even a gentle one: wishes she could offer promising words like Jon, words of caution like Jaime. She wishes she had a mother’s touch to soothe, to protect, to salve. </p><p>But she is none of these things, so instead Brienne is mute as she drudges through the snow. She dislikes the loud crunch of the earth as it rattles beneath her feet, but there is nothing to be done for it. She wonders, faintly, if soldiers sing to drown out the cries, the whimpers, the screams. She wonders if the drums are their own form of distraction, a reminder to pick up your feet and march. </p><p>Jaime is silent as they arrive, silent as they find their rooms, silent as Brienne wordlessly follows. She expects some manner of heartache or grief. She expects Jaime to weep for his sister as the women weep for their children and their dead. She expects to bind the wound, ease the infection, but instead Jaime wraps her up in his arms, backs her into the nearest wall and kisses her with something like fire. </p><p>His lips are demanding as a promise, as lasting as a bruise. It is all the same: to Brienne it is something tangible, something living. Something warm, after being alone in the dark. A breath of fresh air, a calm after the storm. </p><p>When Jaime allows a reprieve it’s to look her in the eye. His hand caresses her face as though what he sees there is some rare, precious treasure. “Never leave me alone in this world again. <em> Never, </em>Brienne.”</p><p>Tears prick at her eyes. It is not the words she was expecting, but somehow, unknowingly, it is precisely the words she needed to hear. “I did not go far,” she whispers, and wonders to whom she is lying: herself, or Jaime. </p><p>Jaime’s fingers brush beneath her eye. He knows, of course he knows. “If it is three paces behind my back, it’s too far.”</p><p>Brienne arches into his touch. She is ridiculous and ugly, but today the truth does not matter so much as being tied to Jaime’s embrace, to feeling his touch everywhere. Everywhere they called her abhorrent, everywhere they flinched from her skin. Everywhere that marks her a woman, everywhere Jaime has touched her. Everywhere he hasn’t. </p><p>“Keep me close, then.”</p><p>It is as close to a promise as she can demand. She will wish for no more, and no less. She could scarcely bear to hope, but his words rip her defenses away, leaving her vulnerable and begging, just begging for a chance at his wholehearted affection, a chance at his love.  </p><p>And he knows. Jaime releases a breath before he crashes back into her, firm and unyielding. His beard prickles her skin where his hand is smooth, gentle. Always at odds with himself, except this time his desperation mixes with hers and together they are kindling: brewing a fire that is at once intoxicating and dangerous. It may be too sweet to last, Brienne thinks, but for once her heart is alight with love and light; for once, she stands confident and unafraid—not in herself, but in them. Finally she stands ready to throw caution behind in the snow, ready to let it be buried dead and forgotten in the cold as she steals Jaime’s kisses, his warmth, his light. </p><p>“Brienne,” Jaime grunts when she grapples with his laces. Brienne does not deign with a reply, too busy flipping him against the stone to finish the task. Jaime is compliant in her arms, breathless and wanting, and Brienne wonders if he is just as fascinated with the dichotomy of them, just as struck by the image of their bodies intertwined. He is every bit the man she remembers, strong and lithe and more graceful than she, and gods, does she want him. She wants countless nights, countless futures, countless battles. She’ll take it all, if it will grant her this. Him. <em> Them.  </em></p><p>Jaime’s touch is desperate, his fingers impatient as he returns the favor, or at least, attempts to: Brienne takes great delight in his distractions and his impatience while she undresses him, deftly, as two hands and long days in the field will allow. His fingers struggle against her armor, her mail, her breeches, meanwhile Brienne breaks him carefully apart, piece by piece, until he is bare, or bare enough. Enough to study, enough to touch, enough to taste. </p><p>Brienne takes him in her hand and delights in his body collapsing against the wall. She smiles into his neck. She is talented here, too. </p><p>“Please,” Jaime stutters, a whisper. He is a beautiful plucked disaster, his eyes betraying his nerves, left ragged and desperate in his desire for her. <em> Her. </em>Jaime moves her hand away, hoists himself upright by the wall at his back and clings to her, seeking her mouth as a drowning man searches for pockets of air. His touch is manic, clutching her waist, her hip, her leg. His body moves against hers, a teasing, graceful glide, leading her in steps to a dance. She never thought she would dance again, but Jaime’s relentless pursuit of her touch leaves room for no doubt, no room for shame. </p><p>Brienne keens as Jaime’s hand stretches lower, teasing the place she craves him most, and oh, does she crave him. Craves him in a way that tears nations apart, craves him in a way that rages wars and moves cities. Craves him as she has never craved anything else; craves him in a way that is terrifying, electrifying, and brave.</p><p>“I love you,” Jaime whispers into her shoulder, etching the words into her skin. Not just once, but again and again: <em> I love you, </em> to cover a bruise on her thigh. <em> I love you, </em> to cover a scar on her belly. <em> I love you, </em> to cover the wound on her throat. <em> I love you, </em> to cover the beat of her heart <em> . </em>His eyes are serious, almost sad, as he kisses his way into every new territory as though staking claim to each uncharted inch of skin. He lavishes her with love, with care, with affection, until all she can feel is him. Them. Together, intertwined. </p><p>After, she holds him. Arms tight around his shoulders, his breath a repetitive tickle against her skin. His breathing slows, his fingers losing some of their grip around her belly, but still he clings. <em> Together, </em> Brienne thinks, remembering. <em> We may die, but we’ll take them with us. </em>Brienne smiles in the blue-black twilight, and before she sleeps she etches the same words into Jaime’s warm skin, in hopes he will understand. </p><p>His love is a song, fulfilled at long last. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> and here’s the tragedy: </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They regroup further south, landing them near the Frey’s. Or what’s left of them.</p><p>They’re not so much welcomed as they are ushered in with haste and silence, sheer desperation outweighing formal manners, introductions, or proclamations. There are frightened exchanges on both sides, Frey and otherwise, and despite their allegiances, their faces are not so different. Traumatized by war, brutalized by conflict. Ripped apart and thrust back together, praying what’s left will be enough. </p><p>Brienne is grateful for the reprieve, but she is not comfortable. Maybe it’s the memory of Lady Catelyn that yet haunts her footsteps, maybe it’s knowledge at the river of blood that once stained the harsh wood floors. Whether real or imaginary, there are ghosts that line these halls, and it is death that taints these lands. It’s a curse, or something like it, and when Brienne sleeps it’s to wake a moment later, a scream dying on her lips.</p><p>Jon is troubled, Arya is restless, Sansa maintains decorum as best she can. They are a shaken militant group, and despite knowing the risks and taking the chance as honor would demand, Brienne cannot shake the feeling that Jaime was right all along. <em> It’s not going to stand. </em></p><p>Winterfell had fallen. How long before the rest of these lands follow, too?</p><p>Brienne thought Jaime uncaring, once. She thought him cold and callous, rude and vulgar. She thought him an arrogant fool, a beautiful disgrace. At his worst, Jaime is many of these things, but at his best? The man he is now? He is superior to petty titles and vile descriptions. He simply <em> is, </em>and this is more than mere word could ever fully express. Words cannot contain the heart of him, the piercing soul. As bright as his sword, as sharp as his tongue. As fierce as his rage, searing and righteous. He is a studious man, and careful. Precise and particular, but gentle, too. </p><p>He has been kind to her. He has shown her great mercy. He has been her friend, her protector. He is her shield, a true knight. </p><p>Brienne thinks of the White Book he so adores. She thinks of the reputation he so loathes, and decides Jaime Lannister has had enough of words, enough of judgments. Jaime Lannister has been denounced and burdened to a fault, and it is high time that Jaime’s chance at wisdom be heard—properly, this time. </p><p>Jaime fought Robb Stark and lost. But if there’s one thing Brienne knows, it’s that Jaime learns from his mistakes. He pays the price each day, in more ways than one. </p><p>Brienne wanders the Frey halls until she finds him, secluded and alone in the darkest hallway. Jaime does not turn to face her, his eyes grim and far away, gazing out at a once great black sea. A storm wages beneath them while snow abounds in the air, soaring above their heads, high amidst the clouds. </p><p>A war is brewing. And when it strikes a second time, its terror will be swift. It will be the end of dreaming. The end of daylight. </p><p>Brienne does not speak. She winds her arms around Jaime, a makeshift embrace. “Speak to me,” she says, a whisper. She is patient with him here, careful with her words. The storm rages on, a great cacophony of sound, until finally there is peace. A temporary stillness, a halting of the clouds. </p><p>Jaime covers her arm. A reciprocation. Brienne hears an intake of breath, a sharp inhale, before he speaks. </p><p>This time, she listens. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> it’s not enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Brienne stands on the parapets, listening to matters of strategy between Sansa and Jon. Jaime should be here, this is his game, but their last battle left him with a wound to his shoulder, a nasty looking affair that needed a day’s rest to heal. Brienne was concerned, of course, but Jaime dismissed her worry with a swift nudge toward the door. “Go help them plan,” he said, but his eyes were kind. “Gods know they need it.”</p><p>Jaime can move armies into submission and turn a bleak tide into something resembling hope; Brienne can move her body and her sword. The two are not at all similar, but Brienne stands at attention anyway, ready to report each minor detail back to Jaime in hopes he can direct their movements, even from afar.</p><p>Still, Brienne understands his concern. With the wind especially crisp and the snow especially stark, it leaves their forces more exposed than usual. Jaime loathes it, and Brienne has heard enough of these meetings to understand: with more and more soldiers huddling inside for warmth, they are all but asking for the enemy to flank, destroying both army and civilians in one swift stroke. </p><p>Sansa takes her leave, but Jon lingers. </p><p>Brienne doesn’t know what possesses her to say it. Jaime’s affection for brute honesty must be rubbing off; Brienne would be appalled if she weren’t so entranced by him. “Why did you allow him to stay?”</p><p>Jon doesn’t look at her, doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. He is an impenetrable force, a calm, stable presence. It is the burden of command, maybe, or the burden of life that weighs upon his shoulders, halting his true expression. </p><p>“No one is who they appear to be,” Jon says at length.</p><p>It’s a curious phrase, spoken with wisdom beyond his years. Brienne looks at Jon and wonders where the knowledge stems from. Wonders if it was always his to hold, or whether was imparted to him through years of trial and grief. Still, it’s a sentiment she appreciates, a sentiment she embodies: always has and always will. </p><p>“I’m grateful you see it that way,” she replies with a nod.</p><p>Jon sighs, looks at the ground. “I might not have, once.” When he looks back up again, he peers at her, and it’s honesty that pours out of those sad, dark eyes. Honesty and pain. “But if we can’t stand together, despite our differences, despite our pasts, then what is it we’re doing here?”</p><p><em> What is it we’re dying for? </em>Brienne hears Jaime’s voice, and realizes he’s right. They’re both right. </p><p>It feels a lesson that is a little too late, in many ways. A lesson they failed before they even knew there was a war to win. But it’s not for lack of effort on Jon’s part, and it’s not for lack of sacrifice on Jaime’s. It’s not that they aren’t influential, it’s not that they aren’t trying, it’s not that they can’t change. </p><p>It’s that the wheel was already in motion, and the real war started long ago, so long it may well be inevitable now, to fall.</p><p>Expectation. It’s a funny, disarming, damning thing.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are allowed  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to watch the sun swallow him whole and burn him up, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The kitchen maids discover a hidden stash of herbs in a kitchen alcove, and the response is a resounding sigh of relief: they have gone days without word from neighboring lands, and hope is stretched thin. Celebrations have become few and far between; even births rarely stir much excitement. Not when resources are scarce and every gurgle or cry may call the Others’ attention, their army with their blue, watchful eyes. The days have blended together besides, the lack of sunlight making the days go still, so after a time the celebrations fade and shortly after the smiles do, too. </p><p>The sigh becomes a whisper, and the whisper an invitation: by evening the tables are set with candles and chairs, and stew is served in bowls instead of cups. The children get a fire going, and women emerge from the cabins in dresses and frills. Sansa sits at the head table in fine linen, her hair pinned neatly, tumbling down her shoulders in gentle red waves. Even Arya appears, the first Brienne has seen of her in weeks, taking a seat beside her sister with rare diplomacy, bordering on sweet. </p><p>The evening becomes an event onto its own: life is present, nearer than ever, the air scented with flowered perfume and spiced incense. Ale is served, the fire is warm, instruments appear. A flute first, then some strings. </p><p>Brienne stands in a corner, watching the proceedings with guarded interest, unsure of her place. Jaime makes an appearance after his watch in simple linen, a dark boiled leather that compliments his stature, and his marked interest when he spots Brienne across the room is its own kind of victory: wonderful and warm. </p><p>“Good evening, my lady.” Jaime’s left hand brushes her elbow in greeting. </p><p>“Good evening, ser,” she returns, a slight dip of her chin.</p><p>“So polite.” Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Surely we are past propriety at this point, yes?”</p><p>Brienne blushes, the image of just what propriety has been breached appearing in her mind’s eye. She looks over at the woman singing, plucking at the fine instrument in her arms. “Perhaps.”</p><p>Jaime grins, drinking his ale before discarding it just as quickly. Brienne pays him half a mind, too entranced willing the blush from her cheeks and listening to the song floating through the air. It is a new one, unfamiliar to her ears. A tale of a knight and his lady love. There is hope and despair, life and death, a war for the ages…</p><p>“They’re singing about you, my lady,” Jaime whispers in her ear, nuzzling her cheek. </p><p>Brienne’s face flames all the harder. “It cannot be. I never dreamt…” She gestures uselessly. </p><p>Jaime’s arms encircle her waist, his grip held loosely at the wrist. He sways back and forth to the tune, its expression both wistful and sweet. “It’s true.”</p><p>It is a picture right out of a dream. A lyric straight from a song. Never was this sweet melody intended for her ears, never was she worthy of song. Brienne had long thought this tale gone and buried for once such as she: her very existence a living, breathing mockery of everything she craved and adored. Long after she stopped believing herself possible of such wanting, Jaime came and turned her illusions around. Part jest and part feeling, but all of it authentic, all of it real. All of it more than she ever dared to dream, and far too much to hope. </p><p>Brienne turns to meet Jaime halfway, presses her lips to his cheek in a kiss. Maybe theirs is worthy of song, after all: this man has been her enemy, her friend, her comrade in arms. This man is her lover, her husband, her friend. </p><p>Brienne clutches Jaime’s arm. She paints the image behind her eyelids so she will never forget: the fragrance, the fire, the warmth in her belly. Jaime at her back, solid and warm, swaying to and fro in a gentle embrace. </p><p>It is a dream, too beautiful to last. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> to stain your fingers to the bone holding him together, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are too few of them now to garner reports. </p><p>Where once the kingdoms would send ravens, now they send horses with riders. Where once there were drunken songs near the campfire, now there are relentless hours in the forge, crafting bows and dragonglass arrows. Where once the kingsroad was gallant terrain, now the roads are silent and still. Where once there were shouts of glorious victory, now there are whispers of winter drawing near. </p><p>Where once there were living, now there are dead. </p><p>Brienne is on patrol, keeping her vigil. Her eyes are heavy, her body aches. They have been awake for three days and three nights, preparing for the great battle to come. It has been a long and arduous process, full of pain and grief. There are pockets of hope, snippets of laughter, but they are becoming fewer and fewer as the nights grow dark and darker still. Later, she will suspect, this is why she did not act sooner. </p><p>A horse emerges from the fog, but there is no light to show its rider. Brienne watches in a haze, exhaustion transforming her eyesight to something distant, unfocused. As though the fog is clouding her vision, as though it is a dream. </p><p>She should call out. For Jaime, for Jon. But her mouth remains silent, her eyes transfixed, as she watches the horse complete a lazy turn, braying once, twice as the cold ushers in. </p><p>There are whispers in the trees. Brienne cranes forward to hear, to see. To discern what manner of magic or man draws near. Her senses betray her, but she strains past the elements to find a pale rider on a dark horse. Its hooves are cracked, its legs scabbed and torn. But past these things, past the darkness, Brienne feels the air shift, like the tide before a storm. The wind bellows, the snow rages, and then—the sound of glass breaking, of crystal shimmering. A pause, no longer than a breath, and windchimes join the cacophony of sound, a strange alien melody not meant for her ears to hear. </p><p>
  <em> Winter is here.  </em>
</p><p>Not one rider, but three—no, six—stalk forward. Their eyes are bright in the darkness, fluorescent and otherworldly, while their horses appear blind and decrepit, not living, but dead. The riders have blades of ice, or perhaps glass, taller and sharper than any Brienne has ever seen. </p><p>Brienne fears. She runs. </p><p>Down the stairs, vaulting the staircase. Stumbling on the final step, tripping in the dark. The torch has been extinguished, its flame frozen solid. Brienne picks herself up, fumbling in the dark until she reaches the gate. The horn. </p><p>One blow. Two. Then three. </p><p>She does not wait for the reinforcements. Her warning is not for her own ilk, but for the others: the women, the children. Her heart pounds in her ears like drum beats, her fingers shake. She has faced evil before. She has slain wicked men, gutted their stomachs and cut off their hands. She has invoked justice, she has fought undead. </p><p>But not like this. Never like this. </p><p>She can hear people behind her, scrambling from interrupted sleep. Women screaming, infants crying. Men rushing for their bows, archers scrambling the parapets to take position. Jon, issuing orders. Jaime, preparing for war. Men line the trenches in waves, some with mail, some not. Some with shoes, some without. </p><p>The gate shudders. It creaks, it groans. </p><p>Brienne unsheathes Oathkeeper. She stands ready, poised. </p><p>Her eyes sting. She sweats, despite the cold. </p><p>“This is it,” a man says, near her elbow. </p><p>Brienne does not have the chance to berate him. None to rebuke him. Not even to console him. The gate shatters, the wood not the strong trees in Winterfell. It falls like wheat in a field, a flower in the breeze. It was never meant to hold back an army, and even if it was, nothing could withstand this force. No one.  </p><p>Three riders enter, poised at the precipice, while the wights stagger forward in waves, pouring in like ants on a hill. </p><p>Brienne feels a jolt at her back, akin to poking a bruise. There is a sword at her back, a wight to join it, but her armor withstands the blow. “Wench!” she hears, not far behind. A moment later the wight falls and Jaime’s shining eyes appear behind its back, smiling innocently. “Best be careful,” he <em> tsks, </em> chastising.</p><p>“Three paces behind your back,” she replies, and it feels like the first time she’s smiled in days. </p><p>“That’s more like it,” Jaime nods, and they turn as one to fight side by side. </p><p>For hours, they fight. Slashing, hacking, thrusting, turning. Attack, defend, advance, retreat. Again and again, chess pieces moving on a board, a flurry of snow and ice and fire. They’ve moved across the yard, the snow up to their knees, the wind howling in their ears. Brienne does not know where they are, she can hardly feel her hands, but she can feel Jaime at her back, keeping close. Pressing at her back, guarding her flank, a shield. </p><p>It feels like hours before there is a reprieve. The dead trickle in fewer and fewer waves, until there are only a few stragglers left, dragging their feet. </p><p>“At last,” Jaime says near her ear, cutting down a wight at her elbow. Her aim has gotten sloppy; her arm has grown slow. “My arm was feeling a bit tired.”</p><p>It is a kindness. He has been more resilient than her, and guarded her to the point of recklessness. If she were well versed in words, Brienne might offer a joke to make him laugh. If she was a lady, she might kiss his hand to show her gratitude. But she is just Brienne, so instead she collapses near his shoulder, a dead weight. He holds her, as she once held him.  </p><p>“Thank you,” she breathes.</p><p>She can feel Jaime’s breath near her cheek. It is a sweet comfort, a dichotomy against the wind. “Always.”</p><p>It feels like a promise, a most holy vow. For her ears alone. For <em> her. </em> </p><p>Brienne stands at full height. Jaime grins at her, and he looks wholly content. Wholly proud. Brienne does not know what she has done to deserve such wonderful, complete happiness. Here, at the end of all things. </p><p>Naturally, that is when it all falls apart. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> to count the constellations in his eyes as they blink out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Brienne can hear Jon, distant, over the horizon. More than once, she hears his voice. But it is a distant thing, always distant, always three paces too far to parse over the wind. </p><p>A soldier rushes past, clutching Jaime by the arm. “Run,” he says. His face is wet with tears, half frozen on his face, in his beard. “They’re coming.”</p><p>Brienne looks to Jaime. He is already looking at her, or so she thinks. It takes several bouts of blinking the snow from her eyes to see: Jaime is not looking at her, but behind her. </p><p>Fear trickles along her spine as Brienne spins, slow. “Jaime…”</p><p>“Damn,” Jaime mutters, half to himself. “I had hoped…”</p><p>There is a figure on the adjacent hill, much like the figure at Eastwatch. A pale rider, arms outstretched. As his arms raise the corpses rise with it, dead puppets held by string, or maybe magic: from the earth itself they are reborn, an undead army come to conquer their prey. A noise then, a high note carrying on the wind as they begin their march. Forward, toward the living. Forward, toward Jaime. Their eyes are blue, their pace steadfast. There are as many corpses as there are snowflakes. This goes beyond counting. Beyond winning. Beyond houses and honor and oaths.</p><p>“Jaime,” she says again, desperate. She does not wish to join their ranks to the dead. She cannot fathom the thought…</p><p>There is a whisper behind her ear, a flutter along her spine. She does not have time to turn, to see, to swerve, but some part of her understands through hearing alone: a <em> slice </em> through the air, the crack of ice. A rider at her back, come to stab her from behind.</p><p>It is cowardice, she thinks, that her eyes close. There is nothing to be done for it: she had thought herself dead long before, and the gods have granted her more than she thought possible. Pride. Shame. Love. </p><p>That, more than any other, is some small miracle.</p><p>When her eyes reopen, there is indeed a sword at her neck. But there is no sensation, no pain. Jaime is there, clutching her arms. He coughs, once. The blade is not protruding through her neck, but his. </p><p>He has blocked the blow that would end her life. </p><p>Time slows, then circles, then stops. “No,” Brienne whispers, uncomprehending. But the image does not change. It burns in her memory, miniscule, on repeat: Jaime’s eyes, widening, staring at the icy blade. </p><p>“Well,” he sputters, an attempt at a smile. Blood gushes from where his neck meets his shoulder, hot and searing. His fingers clench at her arm, a vice. “It’s certainly a different sensation than the hand.”</p><p>“No,” Brienne says, half mad with grief. <em> No, you must live. </em>Jaime falls to his feet, cradling the wound, and Brienne falls with him, cradling his cheek. </p><p>“Jaime, this—it’s—”</p><p>“I—” Jaime tries to speak and spits out more of his own blood instead. Brienne’s fingers press harder, firmer, for lack of anything better to do: all knowledge has left her and in its absence she is left fumbling in the darkness, incognizant. She is no leader here, no commander. She cannot bear to recognize this moment for anything less than an absurd, terrible dream because the truth is too grim, too fatalistic, too <em> awful </em>to bear. </p><p>“I—” Jaime tries again, eyes speckled in surprise at his own lack of diction. The spark Brienne so adores is fading, those bright intelligent eyes going dim, and Brienne chokes on a sob. Jaime’s hand reaches up, covering hers on his cheek, a pale imitation of the words he can’t say. He looks at her, eyes searching. Pleading. He smiles, guileless and sweet. Blood stains his teeth, and the expression is all fucking wrong, but Brienne smiles through her tears regardless. One last time. </p><p>For him. </p><p>Jaime’s breath goes labored until it crescendos in one final, heaving breath, choking, and his body crumbles further into the ground, a ghost. </p><p>Brienne’s eyes close. She breathes in the storm. She reaches for Jaime’s blade as she opens her eyes, and it is covered in his blood. <em> Lannister crimson, </em> they called it, a threat, as well they should.</p><p>The hilt is warm, its blade true. It shines with an orange flame, a light against the darkness. A light like daylight. Brienne does not hesitate: she wields Jaime’s sword just as she wields Oathkeeper, and rises with both. She advances across Jaime’s body, going straight for the throat. The Other dodges her blows with a few of its own: graceful and fluid, fast and smooth, but Brienne will not relent until one of them joins Jaime’s body at their feet. Be it hers or this creature’s, it makes no difference. </p><p>With two swords, it is not so difficult to achieve: Brienne blocks a fatal blow with one valyrian sword, then uses the other to parry low and knock the Other to its feet. It wails as it falls, windchimes, but Brienne is not distracted by its strange, melodious tune. She kicks the sword from its fingers, holds her sword high, and plunges Oathkeeper into its chest, deep. </p><p>The Other screams, not a cry, but a wail: less a sound and more a reverberation of the earth, the clap of thunder before an avalanche. Its body shatters a few moments later, its form disintegrating into a thousand pieces of crystallized ice, its essence joined with the storm it helped create. It is a thing of dark, dangerous beauty, truly, but Brienne does not linger to watch the aftermath. </p><p>She can hear soldiers shouting, indistinct. She can see the wights falling to the ground in her peripheral. She observes but she does not see. She hears but she does not listen. Brienne crawls back to Jaime’s body, joins his slumped, bloodied form on the ground and cradles his face.</p><p>“What were you thinking?” she asks his body, weeping over his form. </p><p>
  <em> Something stupid. Get behind me.  </em>
</p><p>It is too much to bear. Too much to remember. Brienne ignores Jaime’s request to run toward safety and chooses a different vow, instead: she chooses to remain with him, side by side, until morning comes or night takes her. </p><p>Whichever is sooner. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Jaime Lannister dies and there is no music, there is no melody, there is no song. </p><p>There is only silence, and the and the steady thrum of a blacksmith’s hammer marching them ever closer to war. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are not allowed to save him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She cannot stand to be parted from him. She cannot stand to leave him here. The horns ring loud in her ears, pounding against her skull. Her arms are weary, her legs tired. Her eyes can scarcely make out Jaime’s face, his hair. A lion, covered in snow and mud, his casket made of ice.</p><p>A woman’s hand touches her arm. Her face is old, greying. In her other arm she carries a torch for the funeral pyres. It is the only way to ensure the dead will stay where they belong. It is the only way to ensure the dead stay dead. Her eyes are understanding. Pitying. “If we look back,” she says, “we are lost.”</p><p>But Brienne does look back. She can’t not. Jaime deserves better than to be left in the cold, dark earth, with nary a memory to carry him forward. This is not justice. This is not poetry. This is simply death. Awful, dishonorable, despicable death. </p><p>She cannot stand to be parted from him. “Leave me with him.”</p><p>The woman’s smile is a thin thing, not a smile at all. “The gods have not taken you yet, child. You must fight while you yet breathe. Then, and only then, will you join with the earth, with whom you love.”</p><p>There is no use crying; her tears will not fall. They will freeze to her face, obstruct her vision, and she will die a coward’s death. Unjust, unworthy, dishonorable death. The woman offers a hand back up; Brienne accepts with nary a word. She picks up Jaime’s sword, lying near his feet. The flame is extinguished; its light no longer shines. </p><p>“Widow’s Wail.” The woman chuckles, a tart sound. “A fitting name. They should write songs about you.” She smiles, and her teeth are rotten, old. </p><p><em> A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one 'Oathkeeper' </em> <em> . </em></p><p>Brienne hesitates, gripping the sword. She would think the sentiment a jape, once. As it stands, she is too weary for jokes. There is no humor to be found on this darkened landscape, and anyone foolish enough to jest should not hand Brienne a sword. “I hope someone will be alive to do so,” she mutters to the bloodied hilt, and it feels true, or true enough.</p><p>
  <em> I will. For her lady mother's sake. And for yours. </em>
</p><p>The woman smiles, but it is a sad thing. Pitying. She lights the pyre, Jaime’s body with it. Brienne stares until her eyes blink away unshed tears. Only then does she look away, trudging toward the other soldiers. Toward daylight, as she promised she would.</p><p>“Someone will,” she hears, quiet, as she walks away.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There is no dawn. </p><p>Not on this side of the river, not this close to death. Here the melody is not of blacksmiths, not of marches, not of drums. Here the instruments are foreign and unknown, here the song is windchimes. </p><p>Brienne can sense them, lurking near. She can feel their presence circling, flanking. Soon, they will fight. For the dawn, for the end. Brienne will join the battle, as she vowed she would. She will protect as many as she can while she yet breathes, and after...</p><p>After, she will join Jaime. </p><p>Jon stands beside her on the crest of a hill, overlooking what remains. Several scattered houses, a few horses, a number of half-crumbled walls. It is a stalwart effort, and it is all they have. “I sent the women and children away,” Jon says, nodding to the west. “They may yet survive.” He has the same look in his eye that Brienne feels in her soul, a kind of ethereal understanding the likes of which Jaime knew all along.</p><p>Expectation.</p><p>“We may die,” Jon adds, a ghost on the wind.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Jon looks at her. What he sees, she does not know, but his expression is kind. Sad. Jon nods, and she knows he senses what is to come. Their end, or nearly so. Perhaps he will survive, defeat this darkness, become the leader he was always meant to be. Westeros may be no more, but there is more to this world than just Westeros. Perhaps there is merit in starting anew, across the Narrow Sea. There is no such future for her. Her future has already come to pass, and its ashes float in the breeze, soaring above their heads, high amidst the clouds.</p><p>Silence engulfs them, and Brienne can hear it, faint but ubiquitous: a fluttering breeze, a chill along her spine. The faintest whisper of windchimes. </p><p>She is ready. </p><p>“But first we’ll live.”</p><p>Jon says it with conviction, not with sadness, and Brienne relishes it. There is a peculiar peace in understanding, even if that understanding is steeped in sorrow instead of joy. Jaime taught her that, and Brienne sees now what she didn’t back then. Inevitability is absolute, but it is a comfort, too. It only took losing her own precious ray of sunlight for Brienne to finally comprehend, but Jaime was always a faster learner than she. There is a certain irony, then, that he would beat her in death, too. </p><p>Jon looks tense, but not afraid. He was always a good man, hopeful but not foolish. This may be their final stand, their end, and after there may be nothing left. Nothing but legends and relics, histories of a time long passed. Nothing but a note on the breeze before even that sound is snuffed out, replaced by windchimes. </p><p>
  <em> They are singing of you, my lady.  </em>
</p><p>It is not the song Brienne expected to hear. It is not the song she once dreamed. It is not what her father promised when he regaled her with tales of knights and glory, of honor and maids and a love long fulfilled. Brienne can hardly recognize herself in this new tale, but perhaps that is the way of things. Perhaps this new melody was never intended for her ears, but it is of little consequence. Brienne no longer clings to the comfort of songs. Not when reality was sweeter than any melody, and bolder, too. </p><p>And perhaps that is all that is of import. Fabled stories of loves and legends were never hers to hold, not forever, because nothing in this world is meant to last that long. Not even Jaime. Not even daylight. Not even songs. </p><p>She misses his warmth. His light. The sunlight etched in his bones. She misses daylight. </p><p><em> Soon, </em> she thinks. <em> Soon we will never be apart.  </em></p><p>“Aye,” Brienne says aloud to Jon, a whisper. “First we’ll live.”</p><p>She does not have the heart to tell him that she already has.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. </em>
</p><p>—Alfred Lord Tennyson<br/><br/><br/></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for coming to my TED talk.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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